The Yearbook
by jlm110108
Summary: This story takes place during “Soft Target.” It works okay by itself, but if you've seen the episode, I think you'll recognize where this scene fits.


Author's note: This story takes place during "Soft Target." It works okay by itself, but if you've seen the episode, I think you'll recognize where this scene fits.

The Yearbook

Charlie came home to an empty house. He rummaged in the refrigerator and decided to heat up his Dad's leftover lasagna. As the oven preheated, he took out the lettuce, tomatoes, peppers and onions, and put together a nice green salad. The loaf of Italian bread from last night was still soft, so he brought that to the table along with the salad.

Then he ran upstairs to grab the yearbook of his senior year in high school. Seeing Val again after all these years had stirred some old memories, and not all of them were good. And his conversation with Don in his office at Cal Sci had made things worse. Don just didn't get it. He really didn't understand how hurt and betrayed Charlie had felt when Don had taken Val to the prom. Charlie ran his fingers over the blue, gold and white cover, then carried the book downstairs and set it on the table. He popped the lasagna into the oven, poured himself a glass of water, and sat down and opened the yearbook.

He smiled as he flipped through the faculty section. He remembered how frustrated Ms. Davis was with his writing. She told him his essays were thoughtful and original, but his spelling and grammar were horrendous. Mr. Hathaway was his math teacher his senior year. Even though Charlie was light years beyond anything taught in twelfth grade math and had special tutors teaching him advanced courses, he was still required by the state to take the class. So he spent his spare time helping Mr. Hathaway grade papers, and just talking. Mr. Hathaway came closer to understanding Charlie than anybody else in the whole school. He helped Charlie see the practical uses for the numbers that filled his head constantly. Charlie had kept in touch with Mr. Hathaway for a few years, but Mr. Hathaway had retired the year after Charlie graduated, and had died before Charlie had graduated from Princeton. Charlie and his Mom had come home for Mr. Hathaway's funeral.

He flipped through the clubs and sports. Of course, Charlie had been in the chess club and the computer club. But since he was younger than even the freshmen, he had little in common socially with the other students. They were young adults. He was a little kid. A smile played across his lips as he thought of how much better things would have been if his parents hadn't let him fly through school so quickly. None of them had considered the consequences of a college level brain in an eighth-grader's body.

Now things were better. He was thirty, still younger than most of his fellow professors. Younger, even, than a few of his students. But he had the feeling his body was finally catching up with his brain. He was comfortable with who he had become. He still occasionally felt like a geek, but it wasn't the same crippling feeling of not belonging that he'd felt all through school. The FBI agents, Colby and David and Megan, occasionally found his geekiness humorous, but they accepted him as a part of their team.

He came to the chess club photo. There he was, a little kid surrounded by young adults. He remembered how his face ached from the phony smile he'd worn most of the time. How his heart ached when he longed for someone, anyone, he could relax with. The few times he'd opened up to someone hadn't gone well. Eventually, the other kids would tire of little Charlie tagging along with them. Just as Don had done pretty much from day one.

Except for Val. She had been a friend to him. He wondered if she had known about the crush he had on her.

The timer beeped, and he got up to bring the lasagna back to the table. The smell filled the dining room, and he found his mouth watering as he lifted a piece onto his plate. He sprinkled fresh-grated Asiago cheese on top and let it melt as he turned the pages of his yearbook.

The senior pages. He flipped through them until he came to Val Eng on the left hand page, and Charles Eppes on the right hand page. She was turned slightly to her left, and he was turned slightly to his right. Towards each other. She was a beautiful woman in her black off-the-shoulder sweater. He was a geeky little kid in his plaid shirt. Now she was a pediatric surgeon, and he was a world-class mathematician.

The geeky little kid still haunted Charlie. He wondered if anything haunted Val. She had always seemed so self-assured, so comfortable. She never seemed to look inside herself, measuring her inadequacies the way he had. Now that he was a teacher and not a student, he knew that appearances were often deceiving. Sometimes the student who seemed most at peace with who he – or she – was had deep doubts and strong feelings of inadequacy. He had a feeling that wasn't true of Val. Ever.

He flipped the page. Don Eppes. Not Donald. Don. He smiled that macho half-smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, even when he was eighteen. No teenage angst there. He was the star of the baseball team. He was heading to college on a baseball scholarship. The girls loved him. And he had taken Val to the prom. Of course, there was no way Val would have wanted to go with a thirteen year old. But somehow it felt like Don had betrayed him.

Charlie forced his thoughts from that dark place, and turned to Don's page. Favorite color: blue. Probably from the blue and gold of his baseball uniform. But Charlie couldn't help remembering Val's favorite color: "Blue, like the morning sky." A lot nicer than the gray Charlie had chosen. But gray suited him. At least in high school. Now he loved warm colors – reds and oranges, and the warm brown of the natural wood in his house. Favorite season: Summer. Of course, what other season would a baseball player choose? At least Val had chosen spring. Charlie had chosen fall. It was still his favorite season, bright and crisp. Favorite vegetable. Favorite vegetable? What a stupid question, he thought. Come to think of it, they were all pretty stupid questions. They didn't really tell anything about the person. Not anything of any significance.

Nothing in the yearbook showed that Don would join the FBI and be an excellent Special Agent. Nothing indicated that Val would become a successful surgeon, helping the tiniest patients survive. Nothing gave a hint that Charlie would go on to become a successful mathematician, but even more, he would become a successful human being. He would find ways to use his gifts to help his big brother capture the most heinous of criminals.

He flipped back to his page and smiled as he ate a forkful of lasagna. Happy, friendly high school senior Val amiled back at him. Next to her, a smiling Charles. The thirteen year old Charles who felt like a misfit. Now, seventeen years later, he didn't look all that different from the others in the yearbook. Charlie lifted his glass in a toast. "You both turned out okay."

The front door opened behind him and he heard Don enter. Charlie turned and grinned, and invited Don to have some lasagna. Don declined, but noticed the yearbook, and suddenly, they were talking, laughing, reminiscing. Somewhere along the way, Charlie's resentment had evaporated, and he and Don really were okay together.


End file.
